


Offshoots and Echoes

by ArvenaPeredhel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bonding, Fluff and Angst, Fourth Age, Frodo is Asexual, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, Valinor, because it's accurate, bonding over 'rescue the boyfriend' trauma, bonding over Sauron trauma, let's just add the tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27338053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: In the gardens of Valinor, Samwise Gamgee makes a pair of unexpected new friends, and discovers that history is a narrative and whoever's writing it has a few favorite tropes.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 33
Kudos: 130





	Offshoots and Echoes

**Author's Note:**

> I think it was in _Myths Transformed_ that Tolkien first advanced the idea that the Undying Lands make mortals die _faster,_ , but that's not an interpretation that's solidly repeated over and over again across his Legendarium and it's not the perspective on Valinor that I have in my own personal canon.

Sam Gamgee hadn't known what to expect from the Undying Lands, but the fact that they felt so very like _home_ had been a complete surprise. He and Frodo - _just_ Frodo, upon request, though when he wasn't thinking the title slipped out - lived alone in a cozy hole that had been waiting for him upon his arrival. They were making their home on the edges of the gardens of someone called Yavanna, whom he hadn't met but who Frodo and Gandalf both held in high regard, and in truth he couldn't have asked for better. The hill that had been hollowed out for their use was low and solitary, rising up out of the earth almost like it had been summoned, and around it was a split-rail fence like those built around the fields in the Southfarthing. He and Frodo had separate bedrooms, side by side at the back, with round windows set in them to catch the Sun as she rose in the mornings. He had his kitchen, which was stocked with every herb and spice and pan he could have possibly wanted, and Frodo had a study lined with books on all sides, and there was a bathroom with a clawed-foot tub that he swore came from Hobbiton, and a lovely sitting room in the very front by their round door. The fire there would doubtless keep them warm on winter nights, if winter came to these uncanny shores.

He had asked Gandalf if Mistress Yavanna believed in calling upon her tenants, and how one managed paying rent in elf-country, and the wizard had laughed and told him to see about planting something in the yard. (Gandalf was somehow more _himself_ here, younger and older at once, though he hadn't lost his habit of never answering a question.) So Sam, ever-practical even in the face of eternal summers and wild, untamed nights, had done precisely that. The back garden was solely for the kitchens, and cabbages and carrots and onions and potatoes grew in neat rows. Everything seemed to leap out of the ground, attacking the business of growing as fiercely as soldiers attacking the enemy in any of the many battles he'd seen, and even though they couldn't have been in their hole for more than a fortnight he was nearly ready for a first harvest. The front lawn was a garden now too, of a different sort. He'd planted marigolds, and asters, and elanor, and daffodils ( _strange_ daffodils, that bloomed always and not merely in early spring), and wound a path of stone from the door through the flowers to their front gate. It was hard work, honest work, and the more he did it the less old he felt.

This morning, he'd risen early, and put the kettle on for Frodo so he'd have tea whenever he bothered to get up, and then set out to work on the front gate. He'd hoped to have honeysuckle and clematis growing over it without the need for trellises, but it seemed that even magic islands had limitations. The light frames were where they'd been the day before (no burglars here, or wild animals that made nuisances of themselves; this too made him frown if he bothered to think on it) and it was an easy thing to slide back into his slow rhythm of tying and fixing. The morning wound on around him, like a stream around a stone, and he was oblivious to all save the task of setting things into order and making the world line up with the image in his thought. He hummed as he worked, the refrain of a drinking-song from the Green Dragon floating out and over the air.

And then, suddenly, he was no longer alone.

"Ai!" a voice he didn't recognize cried softly, more surprised than anything else. He turned, glancing up over his shoulder, and found himself staring at an elf who must have been the inspiration behind calling the Big Folk by that name. It was a man, near as Sam could guess, though there wasn't much difference between the two to his eye, and he was wearing something that looked less like a gown than a long tunic over leggings. His hair was long, like all elves' was, and hanging loose over his shoulders, looking red as blood in the sunlight.

 _"Óravalyën,"_ the man said, _"inyë - !"_

"Pardon me," Sam answered, carefully choosing his words in the elvish tongue he knew, "but that's a language I haven't learned yet. Do you know this one?"

The man laughed, a sharp bark of a sound. "I do," he answered, chuckling still. "Though I hadn't thought to hear it _here,_ on these shores."

"Why not?" Sam asked, getting to his feet and wiping his hands on his trousers. "It's Elvish, isn't it?" He glanced up at the man, realizing too late that he'd have to crane his neck awkwardly to make eye contact. "Are you something besides an elf?"

"No," the man said, "even if you'd think I was part tree."

"All the Big Folk more or less look the same from down here, usually," Sam told him. "Do you want to sit down? I've got to get these trellises finished before elevenses if I want to get the flowers planted by the end of the day, but we can talk as we work. Unless you're looking for someone who isn't me." He wasn't sure what possessed him to be so friendly, though he had to admit he hadn't encountered any true _rudeness_ in this land. He hadn't even met very many elves. 

The man looked oddly at him, opened his mouth once or twice like he wanted to protest, and then shrugged and sat down.

"I wasn't expecting to find anyone here," he said. "The last time I passed through these parts it was all forest."

"We haven't been here long," Sam explained, turning back to the trellises. "Maybe a fortnight, maybe more." His speech had grown as he'd aged and gotten used to public office, the rough edges filed down, the distinctive accent marking out his family's status diminished. "I'm Sam. Sam Gamgee."

"Nelyafinwë," the elf said, pausing like he expected some kind of reaction.

"That's an awful mouthful to name a child," Sam mused, and then realized he'd spoken aloud, turning back towards his guest with a gasp and an apology ready. _This place turns you on your head and no mistake! I might as well be thirty again!_

But the elf was laughing, shaking his head. "It is," he said. "It means - well, it means 'Third Finwë,' but really it means 'Third Hair.'"

"Finwë," Sam said. "Like the King?" He knew little of elvish history beyond Bilbo's stories of great jewels and ships of glass, but he'd heard the name enough to remember it.

"Yes. I'm his oldest grandson."

"Your parents could have just named you Finwë again, if they wanted him for a namesake."

"They could have. It would have spared me a lot of trouble." A pause, and Sam went once more to his work while Nelyafinwë asked another question. "What's your story, then, Sam? And - I beg your pardon, but are all Men your size now, or are you a Dwarf?"

"I'm not a Dwarf," Sam said, "I'm a hobbit. We're our own sort of person." 

"Hobbit," Nelyafinwë said, as if he was savoring the word. "Kin to Men?"

"That's what the genealogists say," Sam answered. "Don't know what I think, really. And - I don't speak your language very well. Just to warn you."

"Hah," Nelyafinwë laughed. "This isn't my language."

"Oh?"

"There's more than one sort of elvish," he said, "and this isn't the one I use most."

"What's that sound like? What makes them different?"

"Well, the one we're speaking - Sindarin - is a bit softer-edged. I speak Quenya, which sounds like this." Nelyafinwë broke off into a long sentence that Sam half-understood, punctuated with bright vowels and sharp-pointed consonants.

"That's lovely," Sam said when he was finished. "I'd like to learn it."

"It's kin to this tongue," his companion said, "so it ought to be easy to pick up if you wish it."

"I'd like that," he decided, and then muttered a few curses in Westron when his hands slipped and the trellis frame fell out of place.

"Here," Nelyafinwë said, "I'll help." Before Sam could argue, he'd gotten to his knees and awkwardly hobbled over to the other side of the gate. "Just tell me what to do."

"Keep this upright for me so I can tie off all the corners," Sam said. The elf nodded and easily held the trellis still, watching as each piece of twine was deftly knotted into place. 

"I've been told I have steady hands," he said; this seemed to amuse him immensely, and he smiled at some private joke. "But aren't you intimidated by a prince doing your gardening, master, ah, hobbit?"

Sam shrugged. "King Elessar always says gardening's good for the spirit," he said, "and _he's_ King of Gondor and Arnor and descended from all manner of great lords. So I figure if _he'll_ do it, any noble worth their salt will too."

"Elessar?" Nelyafinwë asked. "Human, or elven?"

"Human, but I hear he's got some elf-blood in him. He's descended from Elrond's brother."

"Elros?"

"That's the one."

"And he's King."

"Of just about everywhere in Middle-Earth."

"Is he a _good_ King?"

"Yes," Sam said. "His taxes are fair, and he's good at soothing tempers and talking his way out of sticky situations. He's also a miserable cook, but don't tell him I told you."

"The best Kings are terrible cooks," Nelyafinwë said. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. Are you some prince among hobbits, that you know him well enough to comment on his skill in the kitchen?"

"Me? No," Sam said. "I mean, I was the Mayor for a while, but that's not the same. I met him while I was with Frodo, on the Quest." He sat back on his heels, looking over the trellis and nodding. "That's done. Thank you kindly."

"You're welcome," Nelyafinwë said. "Though - what Quest? You must forgive me. News comes to those in Aman who wish for it, and I've been happily ignorant."

"I can try and explain it," Sam said, "though I don't know the full story, only parts. Oh! Missed one." He reached up, tying off a last string that he'd somehow skimmed over.

"Are you married?" the elf asked suddenly.

"Me? I was, but she passed," Sam told him, "and now - well, there's Frodo and - I don't truly know _what_ Frodo and I are. Only that I love him, despite anything and everything, and I'm never leaving him again."

"Frodo is your current housemate, then?"

"Yes." He sat back again, looking up at Nelyafinwë. "Why'd you ask about marriage? It's not really got anything to do with the Quest."

"Your hand," he said. "There's a band of skin on the third finger, like something was blocking it from darkening in the light. I wondered if you had a ring there. But if your wife passed, I suppose you're not wearing it anymore. I forget that _fírimar_ don't reembody."

"Oh."

Sam glanced at his hands, and at the pale flesh on the third finger of the right one. As always, the sight chilled him. Neither he nor Frodo were as pale as Pippin, but they still grew tan in the summer sun; the contrast between the thin line was striking now. He'd had a wedding ring from Rosie, but it had gone on the fourth finger of his left hand, in hobbit-fashion, and he'd worked in the earth so often that it hadn't had a chance to block the light.

"It's not from my wife," he said. "It's - something like a scar."

He'd worn the One only in direst need, in desperation, in the absence of all hope. There had been no pain, no searing agony, no biting cold, and yet it had left its mark on him, a stark reminder of what he had done and what had nearly been lost.

He sighed, and looked up at Nelyafinwë.

"What do you know about Sauron? That's probably the best place to begin."

Something unnameable, like a shadow of deep pain, settled into the elf's eyes.

"I know him well," he said, settling down so he was cross-legged and facing Sam directly. "You needn't explain _him_ to me."

"He's the reason behind the Quest."

"He usually is," Nelyafinwë said. "He's like a nail in a box of iron filings. He'll always turn up."

"I don't know much about him," Sam said, "except I hate him."

"Completely understandable," the elf replied with a decisive nod of his head. "He's worth hating. What did he do to you?"

"It's not what he did to _me,"_ Sam replied. "It's what he did to Frodo."

Nelyafinwë frowned at that, but before he could answer, another voice interrupted them.

"Russo? Russandol!"

"I'm here!" the elf called, smiling at Sam's bewildered expression. "I have a lot of names," he explained. "This one is one my husband gave me."

 _Husband?_ Sam thought, but at that moment a second elf strode out from the trees. He was shorter than Nelyafinwë had been, and shorter than Lord Elrond, but taller than Legolas; he wore a loose-fitting crimson tunic over brown leather trousers and boots, and his hair hung about his head in thin black braids threaded with gold wire. His skin was slightly darker than Sam's own light brown complexion, and his eyes were nearly black but sparkling with wit and warmth, and when he saw the pair seated by the gate he smiled broadly.

"You've met one of the halflings!" he cried.

"Hobbits," Sam and Nelyafinwë corrected simultaneously, and then both found themselves chuckling at how quickly they'd fallen into line together.

"Hobbits, forgive me," the newcomer said. "That's the trouble with translation, isn't it? They always get the name wrong."

"And _you_ would know," Nelyafinwë said, reaching out with one arm. "Come here. Sit down. Master Sam was just about to explain to me what's been going on across the Sea."

"You ought to introduce me first, or else force me to be terribly rude and then introduce myself," the second elf told him, sliding down into an almost elegant pose before practically crawling across his friend - husband? - to offer a hand to Sam. "Do mortals still shake hands?" he asked as he did so. "If they don't I'm sorry, I haven't met one in Ages except for Frodo and Bilbo."

"You know Frodo?" Sam asked, shaking the proffered hand rather awkwardly.

"Not well, but we've had brief conversations. Russo, aren't you going to introduce me?"

"No," Nelyafinwë said, looking at the other elf with a warm smile playing over his lips. "You're doing just fine on your own."

"I'm Sam Gamgee," Sam said. "Samwise, if you're proper, but Sam will do fine."

"And I'm Findekáno," the elf replied. "Findekáno Astaldo Nolofinwion, in full, but truly I think that's too much for friends, don't you?"

"Friends?" Sam asked.

"And why not?" Findekáno asked. "Oh! Damn, I always forget they only speak Sindarin overseas now. The name you _probably_ know me by is _Fingon."_ He made a face as he said the word, looking like it was trying to crawl from an unwilling mouth.

Sam froze.

"Fingon?" he asked, looking once again at the elf half-sprawled over his unexpected companion.

"Yes," Nelyafinwë said; he was smirking now.

_"High King Fingon."_

"Yes."

"The one who - !"

"That's the one," Nelyafinwë said, nodding sagely in a way that was so like Strider when he found something funny it was eerie.

Sam was speechless, staring at his hand that was still clasped in a much-larger one.

For once, he _did_ know who this was.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be a one-shot, but I think a chapter break just _works_ here.


End file.
